a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan “sonnets”: №107
Ordinarily I don’t publish so much poetry at Theoria-press, and instead try to provide mostly essays with an odd poem or sonnet occasionally interspersed among them. But the Muse’s visits have outstripped my ability to keep pace with prose pieces so readers who prefer essays should peruse the archives of this site, which are replete with them. Also, I should acknowledge that the formal aspect of this “Petrarchan sonnet” is liberally conceived so it’s unnecessary to alert me that at “Petrarchan sonnet” with 18 lines is like a quartet with 5 members, though reproof is always welcome from anyone who feels so moved.
YOU STRIKE a match and watch the flame unfold
in dark of night, an incandescent flower
light untrammeled by temporal power
the braided cords of time each moment hold
in estrangement from the next, first foretold
yet never compassed in the single hour;
relentless, history succeeds to scour
clean these scenes; scenes not so long ago ensouled
with youthful hopes of consummation—
yet come! for we must seek a higher ground
we must ascend above our present station
to hills where Heaven’s choirs still resound
and morning stars sing out in exultation
till all the lesser strains are th’roughly drowned
then you’ll perceive how subtle dictation
recorded each event and set it down
a chronicle of the heart’s narration
a scroll whose text you shall one day expound
all you feel you’ve lost through time’s ablation
when time is full, will once again be found
